Chapter
3
Mikkel
I braced myself for the gauntlet. Outcasts both short and tall lined the trail, wielding an odd assortment of weapons from maces to red-hot irons to knives. Their faces contorted as they yelled out their fury.
If I’d been under any illusion that my capture would be easy, it had vanished. This was no game. It was, in fact, a deadly ritual.
I’d never run through a gauntlet before, but I’d heard about the barbaric practice in my studies. Sometimes prisoners didn’t make it through the blows alive. Most often, they became maimed and scarred for life.
Was that what this was about? Did these outcasts enjoy hurting people the way they themselves had been hurt? Did they hope to make others suffer? Or did they want to disfigure those like me who weren’t deformed enough?
Now wasn’t the time to analyze their motives. I needed to devise a plan to protect not only myself but also Gregor and Fowler.
As one of our captors began to free us from our chains, I stepped closer to my scribe. “If you go directly behind me, I shall be able to shield you from most of the blows.”
“No.” Gregor eyed the menagerie of weapons ahead the same way I had. “I’ll go before you and take the blows first. You stay at my rear.”
I shook my head, refusing to let this man suffer any more than he already had. “I insist.”
“And I insist as well.”
The woman with the veil stepped between us. “As touching as your display for each other is,” she whispered, irritation flashing in her eyes, “I suggest you each attempt to take a weapon from someone at the beginning of the line and fight your way through.”
“Will they allow it?” I asked.
“They will not stop you.” She spun and strode toward the gauntlet.
My fascination with this strangely engaging woman grew with every passing moment. As she took her place at the front of the line, she unsheathed a knife. In the same instant, her attention dropped to her belt riding low on her hip and the sword still within its scabbard.
Was she sending me a message that she wouldn’t prevent me from taking her sword? But what about Gregor? And Fowler? What weapons would aid them during their walk of death?
As if hearing my silent questions, the veiled woman glanced to the heavyset man across from her, to his leather boot. The upper edge of a knife handle poked out the top. Her gaze shifted to the man next to him and the long metal pipe he was twirling around.
Why was this woman giving us these tips on how to survive the gauntlet? What did she have to gain?
A shout from behind us was followed by a shove. We were free of our chains and had to start running. I didn’t wait for Fowler or Gregor. I charged forward without them. The sneering and scorning increased, drowning out my thudding heart along with Gregor’s plea for me to stop.
As my feet picked up speed, I veered toward my first target—the sword. The woman with the veil made a move—albeit a weak one—to slash my arm, but I freed her sword and parried a blow from the person beside her. After doing so, I spun and tossed the weapon to Gregor. Then, I lunged and grabbed the knife from the boot. I jumped to avoid an axe blade swinging at my legs, but I couldn’t dodge the hot iron hitting my upper arm, searing through my shirt and scorching my flesh.
I wanted to roar out my pain but held myself back. That would only feed the frenzy for more destruction. Instead, I swiped a metal cylinder in midair and used it to block a sword coming at me from the left.
Before moving farther into the fray, I passed the knife to Fowler. In that same instant, a mace swung at my head. Thankfully, Gregor deflected the blow with the sword.
He would have slipped past me to lead the charge, but I regained my balance and lurched ahead, swinging the lead pipe back and forth like a scythe, clearing the way and beating down most of the weapons aimed at me.
As the end drew nearer, my hand grew slick with blood, and my grip began to weaken. The blood along with the pain in my arm told me I was injured, but I pushed onward for what seemed an eternity until I stumbled out of the gauntlet.
I wanted to collapse in relief for having survived, but I pivoted toward the last few men and engaged them again, distracting them while Gregor and Fowler both staggered past the onslaught and dropped to the ground.
The shouting continued for several more seconds before it tapered to silence. It took me a moment to realize the outcasts were staring at a man who had emerged from the path ahead. He wore a cloak made of fine silver threads that matched his silver hair and long beard. His face was scarred with white slashes across his cheek, forehead, chin, and even one through his lips, revealing glinting silver teeth beneath.
Irontooth. The leader of this rough group. He was flanked on one side by an abnormally burly man who seemed to be covered in hair over every inch of his body. On the other side stood a woman with pale lips and the purest, whitest hair I’d ever seen.
The silver-haired man strolled forward, his attention flicking from Fowler and Gregor back to me, where it held. His eyes were dark, piercing deeply, seeing past my exterior to all my secrets. He couldn’t really read my mind. Still, I lowered myself to one knee and bowed my head, more to hide my thoughts than to show deference.
As his footsteps crunched nearer, I kept my head down until I found myself staring at a pair of iron-toed boots. I tensed with the uncertainty of what this leader would do.
The wind clattered the branches overhead, shaking moisture down upon my back. Or maybe it was more blood. The slice in my arm burned, and blood continued to trickle down to my hand, dripping from my fingertips to the rocky path.
“You and your man there.” Irontooth’s voice was steely. “Who sent you to our island?”
“No one. We’ve come of our own volition.”
His hand connected with my cheek in a blow that would have sent me to the ground had I not been a strong man. Pain ricocheted through my face and into my head, but I held my body in place.
“You’re lying.” His tone grew sharper. “Are you the Inquisitor’s spy?”
I raised my head so he could see the truth of my answer. “No. If you would allow me, I shall help rally your forces and lead a battle against the Inquisitor the next time he attempts to land on the island.”
The citizens in Fife, across the Channel from the island, didn’t like having the misfits living so close. Upon receiving their complaints, the Inquisitor had settled in Fife and made it his mission to eliminate the outcasts.
I wanted to suggest Irontooth join forces with Blade’s army in battling the Inquisitor, but the veiled woman’s warning about the animosity between the leaders stopped the words before I incurred more of Irontooth’s wrath.
He narrowed his eyes upon me, clearly not trusting me even with my offer. “If not the Inquisitor, then who has dispatched you?”
“I’m here on behalf of Gregor.” I nodded toward where my scribe and Fowler had collapsed, noting the blood and bruises on their faces. Hopefully, they’d fared no worse than I had with nothing but a few surface wounds.
Irontooth didn’t take his attention from me. “Veil insists the manservant is here for you and not the other way.”
The veiled woman was perceptive, and I couldn’t deny the charge. Yet how else could I explain our presence on the island? “I brought him here for his own protection.” It was the best excuse I could think of under duress.